Silent Love

Three pews in front of me the father stands straight and tall. His son

is small and maybe 6 years old. One hand rests on his lap, I assume,

when he sits and listens and prays. The other is around his sons back,

resting on the pew, gripping the wood. It is so fascinating simply to

watch the way the father and son bond without words. I watch them

throughout the service as the father shows his love through the

sermon, the hymnals, and when the pair finally leave.

My eyes are glued to them as we listen to the sermon floating through

the arching ceiling, drifting off the white walls and the stained

glass windows. They are alone in the pew and the church is mostly

empty because it's the last service of the morning. When we speak

aloud as a congregation I mouth the words but forget to speak them, I

can hear faint female voices, rough male voices and their voices. The

father points out words with his fingers to the son as they follow

along and his voice is slow, as though he was reading to the boy. The

boy casually watches his father's hands, but seems to sneak glances at

his father's lips, eyes, and teeth. Reverence glows out of his eyes.

"Little boy", I think, "he loves you." They seem to glow, the two of

them.

The service is almost over, the last hymn is called for and they

stand. The boy pulls back on a black turtleneck sweater, and struggles

to get it situated on his body. The father does not look up from the

hymn but reaches down with a certain familiarity that comes from

living with someone, knowing exactly how big they are, how small their

hands are, how slim their chest and shoulders are, exactly how they

move, and where their back ends and their hips begin. He tugs at the

back of the shirt and smoothes it out, adjusting the neck in the back,

folding it down and tugging the bottom hem back over the t-shirt. He

lets his hand rest on the boy's shoulder until the song is over and

they stand like that through the